


like swords to the pit of my belly

by skvadern



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, Choking, Dubious Consent, M/M, Praise Kink, Size Difference, Size Kink, Strap-Ons, Trans Martin Blackwood, Trans Peter Lukas, Under-negotiated Kink, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Sex, for ref my peter and martin Concepts have a foot of height difference, mostly bc i thought itd be hilarious and it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23994439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skvadern/pseuds/skvadern
Summary: When he’s in a whimsical mood, he thinks of Peter as a tiger; powerful and dangerous, but predictable.Peter teaches Martin an object lesson in control, and who has it. Martin's a quick study.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 17
Kudos: 114





	like swords to the pit of my belly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thetwistingdeceit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thetwistingdeceit/gifts).



> spoilery details of the dubcon at the end for people who want. please read the tags n stay safe. fyi, the author is a trans guy his fine self. the word tits is used at one point for peters chest, and otherwise chest is used. the words cock/dick, cunt and hole r used for genitals  
> this fic is rlly nothing more than an incredibly targeted attack on a friend. chuckles, my dude, im not sorry n u cant make me be, bt i do love ya.  
> beta'd by spiraldistortion, special thanks to eye horror for egging me on and john for kicking this off.  
> title from the moon will sing by the crane wives

_ Come back to mine _ , Peter had said. He hadn’t bothered to explain himself, and it’s not like Martin hadn’t noticed the way Peter looks at him – the casual appreciation, not quite a leer.

It’s a bad idea, obviously. For all the months they’ve spent working together, Martin doesn’t know Peter Lukas nearly well enough for this to be safe. He’s been learning, though; how to predict Peter, read what he wants, how to get it for him. When he’s in a whimsical mood, he thinks of Peter as a tiger; powerful and dangerous, but predictable. Controllable, if you learned his patterns, his moods and motivations.

In that analogy, what he’s doing at the moment is something like throwing a hunk of meat at the tiger, to distract it away from a wounded antelope. Jon’s just out of his coma, and Peter has been taking just a little bit too much interest in him for Martin’s liking. Hopefully, this will be enough of a distraction.

So when Peter had asked him, casual and assured and only a little predatory, Martin had said yes.

Peter’s been fidgeting with his stiff, starched shirt the whole journey to his flat, the uncomfortable business attire apparently mandatory for meetings with members of his family. Martin had been a little surprised that a Lukas would rather have a face-to-face meeting than a phone call, but Peter had grumbled something about another branch of the family, and refused to elaborate.

By the time they get to Peter’s London flat – one of those soulless new builds, all glass and sharp metal – Peter’s got three buttons undone, and Martin is trying desperately not to stare at the solid inches of revealed chest hair, the press of what looks like barbell piercings against the expensive-looking fabric. Nevermind what they’re about to do, he’s gotten this far without going googly-eyed over his new boss, and he’s not going to start now. He likes to think he’s learned his lesson about that.

Peter lets them through the door, into what looks like one of those expensive hotel penthouse suites Martin’s only seen on telly, not a home where someone lives. As soon as they’re through the door, Peter’s shrugging off his suit jacket and popping buttons, yanking the tail out of his trousers and stripping the shirt off. He tosses it onto the sofa with a deep sigh of relief, and Martin only realises he’s staring when Peter meets his eyes, a quirk to one thick eyebrow.

In Martin’s defence, his second evil avatar boss is very good looking. His broad, muscled chest is thickly furred, grey hair running down to a soft belly. Martin already knows Peter never got top surgery, and the soft swell of his tits, framed by wide shoulders, makes Martin blush – or maybe it’s the glint of the gunmetal-grey barbell piercings on each one of Peter’s light pink nipples. And then there’s the thick, powerful arms, the easy strength of how he moves accentuated by seeing the shift of muscles beneath his pale skin.

Peter looks up, catching him staring. “Different build from your Archivist, hmm?”

Cold washes over Martin, the rosy sheen of attraction falling away. His eyes drop to the floor, vision filled with Jon, grey-faced in his hospital bed. Not that he’s there anymore, but Martin’s been careful not to see him since. That’s not something he needs right now.

“We’re not talking about Jon,” he says, and regrets it instantly. The tone was too sharp, his body language too defensive – stupid, stupid, he  _ knows  _ not to show too much weakness around Peter, not about Jon. Jon is  _ far _ too important to for him to fuck this up.

There’s a silence then – heavy, like the air before a storm. Martin doesn’t want to turn, but that would be even more obvious, so he faces Peter’s serene face and tilts his chin up to look him in the eye.

“No, we’re not,” Peter says slowly, “but you are thinking about him, aren’t you?” It’s barely a question, and so Martin doesn’t bother answering it.

“Are we doing this or not?” he snaps instead.

Again, Martin knows it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as it leaves his mouth, even if the smile creeping over Peter’s lips wasn’t an indication. It’s not one of his normal, absent smiles; more twitching facial muscles than expressions. This one has  _ teeth _ .

“Now then,” Peter says, drawing the words out, “that was rude.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin replies softly, dropping his eyes to the floor.  _ Appeasement _ , he thinks.  _ Show your belly _ .

“That’s good,” Peter says, genial and deadly. “But I think we can both agree it was a bit stupid, wasn’t it? Antagonising me, when we’re all alone – does anyone even know you’re here?” Peter shrugs, a rolling shift of blocky muscle. “Not that it would help, of course, but still.”

Martin almost laughs. Who the hell would he have told? But he bites his lip, and shakes his head.

Peter lets out a deep sigh. “Well, then. See, I’m not actually offended. Whether you’re going to be picturing your little Archivist or not doesn’t matter to me. But I think there’s a lesson here that you could do with learning.”

Fear beginning to sink its teeth into his gut, Martin fights the urge to turn and run. That’d be the worst thing he could do right now – Peter may not serve the Hunt, but he’s a predator, and fleeing would mark Martin as prey. Instead, he makes himself stand and wait.  _ Appeasement _ .

“I get it, Martin,” Peter continues. “You’ve lost everything that’s important to you, and you don’t care what happens to you now.” As he speaks, Peter starts moving, coming towards him with the steadiness of a rolling boulder. “Still, you should really be careful with that reckless streak of yours.”

“I understand,” Martin says, his voice echoing strangely in his ears.

Peter sighs, shaking his head. He takes another step forward, and Martin finds himself backing up, ever so slightly. Unfortunately, he’s stood right next to a wall, so even that movement traps him neatly, unable to do anything but wait for Peter to close in. “No, I don’t think you do, Martin. You still think you’re in control of what’s happening to you. That you can throw yourself at the monster like a Christian to a lion, and you’ll come out fine on the other side.”

One more step and Peter is on him, close enough to hit. He takes up Martin’s whole world, sheer physical power radiating off him. Martin swallows nervously, and Peter’s eyes track the motion, lighting up.  _ Target acquired _ , Martin thinks, with a fizzing rush of fear.

“But you’re not really in charge here, are you?” Peter says, voice so calm and casual as his fingers close around Martin’s neck.

Twisting his head, Martin tries to jerk away, but Peter steps in closer, tightening his hold and fitting his fingers under the curve of Martin’s jaw. Immediately, Martin’s heartbeat starts to pound in his ears, shock and adrenaline lighting up his body.

Martin struggles, for all the good it does. He might as well be clawing at granite. The broad fingers cage his exposed throat like a vice, palm tight and restrictive at his neck and thumb bruising on his carotid. Already, Martin can feel his head swimming, his vision going fuzzy, his attempts to fight getting weaker as he sags in Peter’s hold.

Peter grins at him, his eyes dancing. “You know, Martin, I’ve choked a few people. I’ve had an interesting life, you know how it is. But I haven’t seen so many of them respond to it like  _ this _ .”

For a moment, Martin’s not quite sure what he means. Then his eyes widen, as he notices for the first time the pulse of warmth between his legs, the way he’s been clenching his thighs together without even realising it. A helpless little noise leaves him before he can stop it, and he realises his mouth has fallen open.

Peter’s smile only widens, and he shoves his thigh between Martin’s legs. Martin tries to pull away, he does, but Peter just presses in tighter, and then Martin’s hips are jerking, the friction against his dick sending sparks skidding up his spine.

“Look at you,” Peter remarks, and his other arm curls around Martin’s waist in a parody of an embrace, like they’re dancing and Martin is his partner. “Now you’re sweet for me.”

Martin forces his face into a snarl, fighting to keep his eyes open. He would have passed out by now, he’s pretty sure, if Peter was trying to knock him out. Apparently he just wants to keep Martin here, on the edge of unconsciousness and weak as a kitten.

Through hazy eyes, he sees Peter smile. “I do like that spirit,” he remarks. “You’d probably be more useful without it, but I’m sure you wouldn’t be as fun.”

Distantly, Martin can feel them moving through the flat. His feet go out from under him, until Peter’s arms are the only thing keeping him up, bands of cold steel locking him in place and practically carrying him.

Peter turns them, shouldering open a door. Inside, Martin can see a bedroom. “Shit,” he mouths, and Peter laughs.

“Is that a no?” he asks, casual as if he’d made another mistake on an Excel sheet. Martin boggles at him, struggling to put a thought together.

A sharp shake brings his spinning mind back to reality. “Martin,” Peter says, hustling him into the bedroom. “Is. That. A no?”

Martin wheezes in Peter’s grip - the most physical, human contact he’s had in months. The first time someone has  _ wanted _ him in longer than he really wants to think about, the first time he’s wanted anyone since Jon. Even with panic still shuddering through him, he can’t bring himself to turn this down.

When Peter loosens his fingers enough to allow movement, he shakes his head.

Peter smiles like a shark, nose full of blood. “Grand,” he says brightly.

Then he shifts his hold on the rest of Martin’s body, arm going under his bum, and suddenly Martin is flying, utterly without reference or anchor as he’s lifted off his feet and sent tumbling down. He hits the bed hard, a solid impact across his back that leaves him dizzy, flailing. A heavy weight follows him down, and he clutches at it on instinct, grounding himself as he heaves in huge breaths. Somehow, being released from the chokehold has made him even dizzier.

Peter chuckles into his ear. “Oh, now you like me.”

“Fuck off,” Martin gasps, on the sound principle that he can’t really get more screwed than he already is. Another rough laugh, then his jumper and t-shirt are being pulled over his head, hard enough that he hears stitches ripping.

“This is nice,” Peter says, to himself more than anything else. “Cute, under those awful jumpers.” He pets down Martin’s side, huge hands that almost make Martin feel small, delicate. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt like that before – he’s always been heavy, ‘big-boned’. Now, he might as well be weightless.

One of those hands returns to his throat, stroking roughly over the heated skin, and Martin arches into it despite himself. The other hand goes to his waistband, yanking his slacks down with efficient jerks. Peter doesn’t even need to move his hand from Martin’s throat to bend and pull them all the way off, and then all that’s between him and Peter’s hungry eyes are his boxers.

“Pretty here, too,” Peter murmurs, taking one of Martin’s thighs and bending it up and to the side, easily as if he was arranging a ragdoll. He knocks the other one aside with his knee, and then Martin is splayed out before the predator looming above him, staring up helplessly into Peter’s grey eyes.

The light in that gaze is avaricious, hungry, and just a little frightened. Martin wonders, suddenly, when the last time Peter touched someone was. He knows by now that he and Elias had… something, but he also knows that the ‘something’ was fractious at best.

There’s a thrill there, at the idea that Peter wants him enough that he’ll stand to touch him, despite being what he is. Peter wants him enough to throw over Elias – he’s competing with a handsome, powerful avatar of a fear god and he  _ won _ . Probably, Martin shouldn’t like that as much as he does.

He keeps his legs where Peter left them, letting Peter look his fill. The man’s gaze prickles across his soft tummy, his thighs, before falling, suddenly even more intent, on his crotch. Martin looks down in confusion, before spotting what Peter’s noticed.

His boxers are  _ soaked _ . The thin fabric is dark and sheened wet, the patch humiliatingly large, and Martin can feel his cheeks trying to flare even hotter.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Peter laughs in delight. “Oh, Martin, you should have told me you liked this so much.”

Martin glares up at him, the shame of being so exposed burning low and sweet in his belly. “You didn’t exactly give me  _ time _ ,” he snaps, or tries to. The effect is ruined when Peter brushes a cool, broad knuckle down his dick, shocking a sigh out of him.

“Such a sweet boy,” Peter tells him, still grinning happily. “How long have you been waiting for some big, strapping man to put you in your place, hmm?” He raises an eyebrow at Martins’ scoff.

“God, you’re ridiculous,” Martin hisses. “ _ My place _ , are you serious?”

Peter shoots him a smile, not at all offended. “I don’t talk to people very often, Martin, it’s possible I’m out of practice with it. Fortunately for me,” he gives Martin’s throat another squeeze, almost fond, “I don’t particularly care what people think of me.”

“That must be nice,” Martin manages to get out, past the constriction and the way it makes heat flare between his legs.

Peter smiles down at him, caressing his dick again. “Oh, it is. You’ll love it.”

His words send a cold spike through the pleasure fogging Martin’s brain, all the things he’s been carefully not thinking about coming to the surface. Then Peter leans in, the mass of him above Martin almost physically heavy, and the icy clutch of fear fades to a warmer, sweeter apprehension. He pulls down Martin’s boxers, hard enough to pop stitches again, and then Martin is completely bare. The vulnerability of it  _ burns _ .

A broad finger slides through the mess of slick, and Martin squirms at the coolness of it against his heated core. Peter chuckles and does it again, glancing against his cock before dipping down to stroke across his hole.

“Christ, you’re already pretty loose, aren’t you?” Peter hums. “That’s good, I plan on putting you through your paces.” The blunt tip of his finger presses in, just a little, and Martin  _ whines _ .

Peter looks up at him, eyes flashing, then sinks his whole thick finger inside Martin in a single gliding movement.

The stretch isn’t ridiculous – Peter was right, he’s shockingly loose already – but Martin still shudders as he clenches down on it, a little noise slipping from his lips, and Peter strokes a thumb almost tenderly across his neck in response.

“You take it nicely,” he murmurs, tone still so strangely casual, and Martin would be lying if he said it wasn’t doing something for him. He slips the finger back out again, until it’s only just inside Martin’s hole, barely keeping him open. “Can’t wait to see what else you can take.” Martin feels the second finger brush his entrance a moment before Peter thrusts it in with the first, and the high little moan it pushes out of him makes Peter tighten the hand on his throat.

It’s already a lot – Peter’s fingers are much thicker than Martin’s own, and two stretch him out wide enough to hurt. He shifts his hips on the mattress, not sure whether he’s trying to move away or further into the aching pressure, until a tighter squeeze to his throat sets his lips tingling and freezes him in place.

“Less of that, yeah?” Peter orders, sliding his fingers out slowly before immediately pushing them back in again, enough of his weight behind it to make Martins’ head spin. “Stay still for me, let me have my fun.”

Martin nods, tiny and aborted, and forces his muscles to go lax. Peter smiles at him, and on his next thrust his thumb caresses Martins’ dick.

“Good boy,” he says, gentle and absent, and forces another finger in. This one  _ really _ hurts, splitting Martin open with a stabbing ache, and he cries out brokenly, trying so hard not to pull away.

“There now,” Peter hums, and his thumb locks down on Martin’s carotid again. Martin’s whole face seems to pulse, head spinning without oxygen. Even as he gasps for breath, he can feel himself open up around Peter’s fingers, getting even wetter.

Peter chuckles, starting to thrust his fingers properly again, loosening his thumb so that Martin’s head can clear a little. “Oh, you  _ love _ that. It’s nice, isn’t it? Really takes you out of your head. And, of course, it’s a great way to show someone exactly where the power lies.”

“Have a lot of experience with it, then?” Martin gasps out when his brain is working enough to manage speech, and Peter laughs.

“I’ve had my fair share, yes,” he replies, thrusts picking up speed and force. Martin finds himself settling into the rhythm, each movement of Peter’s fingers in him easier, better. The burn of being stretched so far transforms into a heavy warmth, making When Peter finally eases his fingers out and lets go of his throat, Martin finds himself whining in protest at being left so empty.

“Stay where you are,” Peter warns, as he gets up to strip off his trousers, revealing hairy, thickly muscled thighs that make Martin’s mouth go dry. He sucks in heaving breaths, tracking Peter as he moves round the room.

Out of the chest of drawers comes a tangle of black leather that resolves itself as Peter tugs at it, and Martin’s mouth goes dry. Peter looks over him, lips quirked at what he must see in Martin’s red face.

“Look away, sweetheart,” he orders, mischief bright in his voice even as his eyes pin Martin to the mattress. “I want this to be a surprise, yeah?”

Martin considers for a second, meeting Peter’s cold gaze, before letting his head roll bonelessly to the side

“Good boy,” Peter says gently. “Such a sweet little thing you are.” More rummaging sounds, then the soft movement of leather straps being adjusted. Martin trembles, unable to control his movement enough to stop it.

The bed dips, creaking alarmingly as Peter climbs onto it, and then broad hands slide under his back. Peter turns him over with an ease that makes Martin ache, before shoving Martin’s knees apart and settling huge and immovable at his back. Cool silicone rubs against his arse, and Martin flinches away – it feels  _ huge _ , bigger than anything he’s taken before.

“I can’t,” he gasps, but all that gets him is another laugh.

“Really, a lovely, big boy like you? I think you can, Martin.” Huge fingers dip between his legs, pressing back into where he still feels shockingly loose and open – but not that open, there’s no way. “You’re so soaked, I don’t think we’ll even need lube.”

“Peter,” Martin moans, and he gets the thick tip of Peter’s cock pressing against him in answer – not enough to push in, but enough of a threat to make him tremble.

Wide, cold palms smooth along his back and sides, like he’s a startled horse Peter is gentling. “Shhh,” Peter murmurs, “you’ll love it, don’t lie. Look how wet you got just from being thrown around a bit. And I’m going to give you something so much better.”

Broad palms settle on his hips, fingers digging into the tops of his soft thighs, and then Peter’s hips are pushing forward, and his cock is spearing Martin open.

It’s… so much. The stretch is as painful as it is agonisingly  _ good _ , carved open and forced by Peter’s grip on his body to take it all. Martin whimpers into the pillow, and Peter sighs, deep and satisfied and reverberating.

“There we go,” he groans, still feeding that huge cock into Martin. “Such a pretty little slut, see, didn’t I say you could do it? You should really trust me more.” A sharp snap of his hips sends him coring into Martin, bottoming out and hitting Martin’s cervix with a burst of wonderful, eye-crossing pain. His hips come to rest, Martin’s arse cupped between them, and Christ, he’s never felt so small.

“Please,” Martin whispers through slack lips – God only knows what he’s pleading for. More, or less? Whatever it is he asks for, it’s not like it matters. Peter’s going to do whatever Peter wants to do to him, and Martin’s just going to have to try to survive it.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Peter says, “you don’t have to beg. It is nice to listen to, though, feel free to keep it up.” He pulls his hips back and it feels like something essential to Martin’s being is being dragged out of him, the friction and stretch unbearable. It just keeps going, until only the tip of the massive cock is keeping Martin wide open, and then impaling him again in a single slamming thrust.

Martin squeals, and Peter actually laughs, rusty and throaty, before doing it again, and again. He leans over Martin, mounting him fully, hairy belly pressed to Martin’s back. Martin gasps as Peter’s sheer mass steals his breath before he’s even fully caught it again, every thrust shoving what little air he can snatch out of his lungs. Head spinning, Martin closes his eyes and takes it.

His cunt feels like it’s melting, hot as a burning candle and impossibly wet where Peter’s moving in him, every slick noise burning through his gut. Martin reaches up, his hand shaking as it brushes against his cock, a spark of sweet pleasure that does nothing but add to the ache.

As soon as he makes contact, his hand is snatched away, cold fingers curling tight around his wrist. Peter grabs the other one for good measure, and both get pinned to the mattress, Peter’s weight coming down on them like stone blocks.

Peter actually  _ tuts _ , even as he continues hammering Martin into the mattress. “And you were being so good for me, sweetheart, I’m disappointed. I told you, you’re not in charge here, and you’re certainly not in charge of  _ that _ .”

“Please,” Martin whimpers again, any last vestige of pride gone.

“No, I think you’re going to come on my cock. Like a good boy – you want to be a good boy for me, don’t you?” Peter lets go of his wrists to reach down and curl one arm around Martin’s waist, fingers digging into the softness. The other huge hand slides up to Martin’s throat, wrapping cool around it and dwarfing the delicate rings of cartilage. Can he feel Martin’s pulse, rabbiting against his fingers?

“Breathe,” Peter instructs him with an amused huff, before the hands on him tighten and Peter hauls him up, rearing back and pulling Martin into his lap. Somehow, Peter’s cock actually spears  _ deeper _ into him, sliding home with a sharp, addictive pang. Martin leans back against Peter’s bulk, cool and solid with fat and muscle, his head falling against Peter’s shoulder when the hand around his throat guides it there.

Peter presses dry lips against his cheek. “You look gorgeous, you know that, Martin? All bright red and breathless. So warm.” He lets Martin down a little, until his knees rest on the mattress. Once he’s braced, Peter tilts his hips and starts thrusting again, slower and steady and impossibly powerful. Martin clutches at the arm that sits across his chest, at the huge wrist flush with his collarbones. The restriction isn’t enough to cut off his air, not now; just enough to  _ feel _ it. Just enough to threaten.

Martin tightens his grip on Peter’s broad, furred arms and allows his body to go limp. He leans into the hand on his throat, letting the light choke burn through him, letting himself feel how easily he’s being overpowered, moved,  _ taken _ .

“Come on,” Peter growls in his ear, his thrusts picking up speed. “I want to see you make a mess for me. I want to see your pretty face when you lose it.”

Tears are sliding down Martin’s cheeks – when did those start? He’s making little, punched out whimpers with every slam of Peter’s cock into him, splitting him open. He’s so close, whole body overheated and aching, caught right at the precipice. More than anything, he wants to touch himself, but he won’t, he can’t – he’ll be good. A good boy, for Peter.

Peter flexes his hand around Martin’s neck, tightening it as he slams in even  _ harder _ , an explosion of sweet, painful ecstasy that tumbles Martin straight over the edge, ears ringing and whole body shaking with the release.

Distantly, he feels Peter pull him down as he sinks back on his haunches, cradling Martin in his lap. Each rolling aftershock sends Martin clenching around the huge cock inside him, oversensitive nerves firing wildly. His cunt feels  _ wrecked _ , swollen and aching, and it’s so ridiculously good. His brain is white noise, buzzing and softened.

When he’s finally done shaking, Peter fits his hands under Martin’s thighs and lifts him slowly off. It hurts, like something vital is being dragged out of Martin with him, but there’s something weirdly satisfying about the pain, like poking a bruise.

Peter guides him to collapse face first onto the bed, and Martin curls into himself a little, burying his burning face in the cool cotton of the sheet. He feels the mattress rise as Peter climbs off it, hears him moving round the room, and sinks with the weight of Peter getting back into bed. It all seems so very far away.

Martin’s head is lifted off the mattress, oddly gently, by the hand cupping his jaw. He meets Peter’s grey, empty gaze through hazy eyes, and the other man smiles at him, one of those strange smiles that look like they’re trying to be tender, and always fall just short.

“Hello there,” Peter says, “how are you doing?”

Martin can’t quite put words together; he blinks up at Peter silently, deep in his head. Peter pets his hair with his other hand, broad fingers sliding so nicely through the curls and scratching at his scalp. It’s the same way Martin would pet a dog, but he doesn’t mind.

“You awake enough to do me?” Peter asks, and it takes a moment for the words to sink through the cotton wool of Martin’s thoughts. When they do, he nods quickly. Abruptly, in the few bits of his brain left active, he  _ wants _ to make Peter feel good, to see what Peter will look like when he falls to pieces.

“Good boy,” Peter croons, and tugs Martin further up the bed with an ease that still makes the bottom drop out of Martin’s stomach. He lost his pants at some point, probably when he took off his cock, and the well between his massive thighs is thickly furred with soft-looking grey hair.

Martin gets his arms under him as quickly as possible, leaning up to nose into the warmth, and breathing in deeply as his mouth starts to water. His lips close gently around Peter’s cock, and feeling it blood-flushed and full on his tongue sends a happy little shiver through him. Some dangerous combination of the oral fixation he definitely has, and knowing that  _ he _ did this. He made Peter wet enough to rub onto his chin, he’s making Peter groan and bury a hand in his hair, pulling him in closer.

“That’s a good boy,” Peter rumbles out, rocking his hips against Martin’s face. Martin dutifully sucks his cock in long, rippling pulls of his tongue, relishing the weight of it, the way it twitches just a little.

The fingers cupping Martin’s skull tighten on his curls, yanking just enough to hurt, and Martin’s eyes roll back a little. He redoubles his efforts, desperate for more of that sweet, sparking pain, to feel Peter come apart above him. Already he can see his chest heaving, the piercings in his nipples glinting as he breathes faster. The hand that isn’t currently pulling Martin’s hair reaches up to play with one, tugging on it in time to the rhythm of Martin’s tongue. From this angle, he looks towering, impossibly broad, like he takes up Martin’s whole world.

“Good boy,” Peter groans again, “look at you, how sweet you’re being for me.” The hand in his hair releases its grip for a moment, smoothing over the mussed-up curls. “Those lovely, pink lips of yours, of course you’d be such a good little cocksucker.”

It only takes a little while longer before Peter comes. He does it almost silently, just a single soft groan, curling over Martin’s head and grinding hard onto his tongue, holding his head down. Martin takes it, keeps sucking as Peter convulses above him, relishing the pull on his hair and the knowledge that it was  _ him _ who made that happen.

When Peter’s done, he pulls Martin off his cock, slumping back against the headboard. Martin rests his cheek on Peter’s furry thigh, catching his breath. The bottom of his face is soaked and sticky, his thighs are basically glued together, and the quiet, dead little voice at the back of his head is finally absent.

One of Peter’s heavy hands lands on his head again, clumsily petting him. It’s a bit like how someone would stroke a dog, but Martin doesn’t mind that so much right now.

Martin’s not sure how long they breathe together in silence, him curled halfway into Peter’s lap, but eventually Peter uses his hold on Martin’s hair to haul him off his comfortable pillow. A little bereft, Martin whines at the back of his throat, and Peter chuckles.

“You’re a bit out of it, aren’t you?” he says, and Martin blinks up at him. He could probably answer, he thinks, but he doesn’t really feel like it.

“Bless,” Peter murmurs, pinching his cheek. Martin gives him an affronted look and he chuckles. “Don’t give me that. Come on, you need a shower and so do I.”

Martin’s a bit dubious about that – he’s not entirely sure if he can get his legs to work yet – but it turns out he doesn’t really have to. Peter heaves himself off the bed with a groan, and then he slides his muscled arms under Martin’s bum and just… picks him up, scoops him right into the air and turns around with Martin in his arms.

Martin wriggles frantically, managing to get his legs around Peter’s waist – it’s a bit of a stretch, honestly. He loops his arms around Peter’s shoulders and clings for dear life as Peter laughs in his ear, taking the opportunity to grope his arse. Martin headbuts him clumsily, which only earns him another laugh.

“Be good now, sweetheart,” Peter chides, shouldering open the door to a plain but obviously pricy bathroom. He carries Martin straight into the large shower, cradling him as he turns on the water and waits for it to heat, then stepping into the curtain of lovely, hot water. He only lets him down when Martin unlocks his legs, and squirms a bit too inconveniently. Probably, Martin should have asked to be released, but he still doesn’t feel like talking. It’s okay, that happens sometimes, and Peter’s probably not going to hurt him. The man has a lazy, satisfied look to him, like a well-fed tiger. 

Tigers don’t need to eat very often, Martin thinks he remembers. He’s fed Peter, so he’s safe now.

Peter washes them both, quick and efficient. His hands on Martin are rough but not painful, and there’s a strange quality to the touches. It’s not quite how you touch another person.The thought chills him, a little, and he grabs for Peter’s hand. He has some mad notion of getting Peter to acknowledge him, that Martin’s real, that he’s here and Peter isn’t alone.

Peter looks down at him, grey eyes absent for a moment, before they focus. “Oh dear,” he murmurs, “you would be a cuddler.”

Martin flinches at that, and Peter sighs. He curls an arm around Martin’s back, pulling him in, and Martin stumbles gratefully closer. His face comes to rest buried in Peter’s chest, soft wet hair tickling his cheeks, and Martin burrows in. Broad arms wrap around his back, even cooler against the warmth of the water, and he feels more than hears Peter’s soft, rumbling sigh.

“Yes, that’s better for you, isn’t it?” Peter murmurs, bending to rub his bearded cheek against the top of Martin’s head. “Sweet little thing. You were so good for me, I owe you a bit of a hug.”

That sounds good to Martin, and he feels the chill hollow in his chest fill up again. He’s thinking clearly enough now to wonder why Peter would offer him comfort when he’s feeling lonely – surely that’s the opposite of what he does? – but he’s certainly not sensible enough to care yet.

When Peter judges them clean enough, he hustles Martin out of the shower, drying them both off quickly. He gives Martin a considering look, something almost like gentleness in those blank eyes, before shrugging and bending to pick him up again. This time Martin goes gratefully, snuggling back into Peter’s shoulder, taking the comfort while he can.

He gets basically dumped on the bed when they’re back in Peter’s bedroom, but the bouncing of the mattress is oddly nice. Martin lets himself tip sideways, thumping onto the pillow. They’ve actually managed not to make that much of a mess, various positions meaning that the wet spots mostly ended up on them, so Martin has no issues wiggling himself under the duvet and settling in. He’s facing out into the room, and he watches as Peter straightens things out, returning everything to hotel-room tidiness. If Peter notices him staring, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

Eventually there’s nothing else to tidy, and Peter circles the bed and climbs in. He pulls Martin towards him, something Martin wasn’t expecting, but he takes full advantage all the same. Peter’s chest is fuzzy and incredibly soft, a perfect pillow, and his hands are back in his hair, scratching at his scalp until Martin sort of wants to purr.

He comes back to himself in bits and pieces, and as soon as he’s able to process how  _ weird _ it is for Peter to still be touching him, he tries to pull away. The arm around his back closes down like a steel bar, and he squirms ineffectively against it.

“Use your words,” Peter instructs, chucking him under the chin.

Martin gives him one of those filthy looks Peter likes to ignore, then sighs and relents. He’s back to himself enough to speak. “Why haven’t you kicked me out yet? I thought you were all for isolation, for both of us.”

“Maybe I fancy having a pretty boy keeping my bed warm for the night, hmm?” Despite his words, Peter shifts away from him, onto the other pillow on the ridiculously big bed.

Martin raises an eyebrow at him, and Peter snorts. “I have my limits,” he says. It’s not an excuse – Martin can’t imagine Peter ever making excuses for himself – just a statement of fact.

“Fair enough,” Martin replies softly. He expects to  _ feel _ the loss of contact, another sick clench in his stomach as another thing is taken from him. He doesn’t, though. It’s not as if Peter promised him anything, not as if he even expected anything from the man. Somehow, that makes it okay.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at-“ he starts, but Peter cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“I’m not playing anything right now – too worn out for games.” When Martin continues to narrow his eyes at him, Peter sighs deeply. “Making connections is hard, Martin. If someone’s worth the bother of being this close to, I’m hardly going to alienate them. Now, hush. If you’re awake enough to still be fretting, I haven’t done my job right.”

Martin’s got to admit, he is a bit too fucked out for anything more complex than curling deeper into the duvet, watching Peter through sleepy eyes. The older man watches him back for a little while, face expressionless as it always is when Martin catches him unawares, or when he seemingly can’t be bothered to emote.  _ Are all Peter’s expressions just put on? _ Martin wonders.  _ What faces does he make when he’s alone?  _ After a while, he closes his eyes, sighs deeply, and appears to fall right asleep.

Eventually, Martin’s eyes fall closed as well. He drops easily, exhaustedly, into unconsciousness, and dreams that he’s lying in a fogbank. It’s cold. It’s very peaceful.

**Author's Note:**

> martin consents to sex with peter of his own free will, but partially to distract him from jon. the choking is not initially consented to or ever negotiated, but martin explicitly consents to having sex with peter afterwards. theres also the canon-typical fuckery that comes standard with petermartin. if any of this is No for u, pls take care of urself n give this a miss. and if anyone reading this after the fic thinks ive missed something in this note, pls drop me a message


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